Email exchange between Sugabelly and Mustapha Audu

Email exchange between Sugabelly and Mustapha Audu

Find some of the emails between the two of them, pictures and more details, soon...

Musti Audu	Nov 26 (1 day ago)
to ceo

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: musti audu <audumm@gmail.com>
Date: Mon, Dec 29, 2008 at 1:29 PM
Subject: sup
To: lotannaio@gmail.com


hello...
jus wanted 2 see how u r doin dis holiday season..
whats good wif u...

Musti Audu	Nov 26 (1 day ago)
to ceo

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Lotanna Igwe-Odunze <lotannaio@gmail.com>
Date: Sun, May 17, 2009 at 9:40 AM
Subject: Pictures
To: audumm@gmail.com


Hiya,.

Images are not displayed. Display images below - Always display images from audumm@gmail.com

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Musti Audu <audumm@gmail.com>
Date: Thu, Nov 26, 2015 at 12:49 PM
Subject: Fwd: something to make you smile
To: Ema Oloyo <e.oloyo@gmail.com>

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Lotanna Igwe-Odunze <lotannaio@gmail.com>
Date: Fri, Feb 29, 2008 at 6:35 AM
Subject: something to make you smile
To: Mustapha <audumm@gmail.com>




xoxo
Lotanna Igwe-Odunze

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Lotanna Igwe-Odunze <lotannaio@gmail.com>
Date: Sun, May 17, 2009 at 10:03 AM
Subject: Re: Your Pic
To: musti audu <audumm@gmail.com>

On Sun, May 17, 2009 at 4:46 AM, musti audu <audumm@gmail.com> wrote:

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Oladipo Oladapo <oladipo1@gmail.com>
Date: Sat, Mar 28, 2009 at 10:12 PM
Subject: Your Pic
To: Audumm@gmail.com


Your Pic

--
Mustapha Audu
CEO
JAVABean Ltd
www.javabeanltd.com

--
Yours sincerely,
Lotanna Odunze

--

Mustapha Audu
Director
Constructors Guild

2 Attachments

From: Lotanna Igwe-Odunze <lotannaio@gmail.com>
Date: Sun, Mar 2, 2008 at 7:24 AM
Subject: can't sleep..good morning Mr. Audu
To: Mustapha <audumm@gmail.com>


Hey,

I can't sleep. Lying in bed watching The Bionic Woman online. And that's after I watched Family Guy, The Sarah Conner Chronicles, and Cashmere Mafia. I did a lot of thinking today. I spoke to my mom. I feel rather sad...for some reason I almost always end up sad after speaking to my mom. She still hates you...can't blame her. You were a jerk to me sometimes, and she got the worst of it from me when she wouldn't let me see you. Plus all the horrible stuff that happened in between. If you don't know what I'm talking about I'll tell it to you later. I'm homesick. Maybe that's why I'm emailing you. I know you won't reply.You never do. You don't even reply when I text you...which is funny because you used to text me all the time..

..speaking of which.. I remember the series of texts we sent each other when our 'affair' started..

me: (right after you dropped me off after that first night in your car): was fun...still wet
you: Hello 17... glad you enjoyed it. Don't worry, we shall continue soon :-)

you used to text me all the time... at least much more than you do now... which is never...can you believe it's been a year? I've known you for a year..  

Jan 24, Wednesday- The first day I spoke to you. You were working on a database and you told me to pull my seat over... I remember you saying "....pretty boring stuff.."  

Feb 5, Monday - You were showing me how to use Dreamweaver and my facebook profile came up.. and you saw that picture ... we drove around Maitama until we found a dark street. I was so nervous, I almost couldn't breathe.. and I unbuttoned my shirt and let you touch me..I told you I couldn't have sex with you and you said " ..it's okay, we're not going to have sex...yet.."  .. but we did, .. and I was sore afterwards.. the inside of my thighs hurt and it was painful to touch myself. 

Feb 6, Tuesday - We grabbed lunch at 212. Later you realised spicy shawarma and blow jobs don't mix so well.. just so you know.. it cracked me up. Later that evening at work I decided to be mean and I ate your shawarma as well. Made it up to you though: sent you three pictures of me topless.. wonder if you still have them.. After that we had sex almost every day that week. A different street each night. Sometimes it took ages to find a lonely enough spot.. and then your red Mercedes would sputter and die..it was quite amusing..  

Feb 8, Thursday - You wore a pinstriped suit to work.. I bumped into you at the front desk. I was signing in and you came through the door, ruffled my hair, and said something that predictably started with "woman...". You looked quite dashing that day.. I think I told you. 

Feb 9, Friday - I was desperate for an excuse to get away from work, and Killian needed to go to the Access Bank somewhere in Wuse. You were taking him and I jumped in the car. After we dropped him off we went to Med to have lunch, but I was horribly nervous and I couldn't eat anything.. I don't know what went through your mind when I said I wouldn't/couldn't eat... but you took it in stride and announced "..Bartender..I've got lots more to order when I get back.." We made our way to the car (did I mention you introduced me to the girl at the reception?) I couldn't keep up with you.. shoes were killing me. I know I'm 5ft 11", but I love shoes so I'll suffer anyway... as we pulled into Villa I commented that my cousin lived there.. you asked where.. and I said "Suleiman Barau" .. I almost died when we got to your house.. It was practically opposite my aunt's.. you said you'd forgotten your key.. you said it was in your laptop bag. You had me sit and wait while you got something from upstairs.. I think it was another key.. your little brothers? came and sat on my lap, and I swear they molested me.. the younger one had his hand in my bra when you came back down the stairs and ordered them to run to Islamiyya.... you opened the door nearest to me on the ground floor.. Balked when I saw the bed.. I've never been good with beds... they scare me... visions of violent rape flood my brain and I get goosebumps... it's like having no air.. there are reasons for that... perhaps you'll find out later. I hid in a corner to undress.. you asked if I was hiding from you... I was. When I was in nothing but my panties you came and stood behind me and slipped your fingers between my legs..I stared at myself in the mirror..naked and watched you touch me. And then you told me to get on the bed and assume a position.. so I lay on stomach with my legs parted slightly..my hips raised.. and you undressed.. and then I was thoroughly frightened. You see, in that moment I realised that I had never seen you naked in daylight. Actually I'd never seen you naked. And I'd never seen a man's penis in such detail before...except in movies.. and online. It felt different, that afternoon. I liked watching myself in the mirror.. you liked watching me in the mirror.. I liked that you liked looking.. it made me feel dirty.. it turned me on.
   Later that night I told the first lie. I told my mom I was going out with you and Ogechi.. we were going have drinks.. Tunji's house.. you and him played a football tournament or two.. "Tunj, do you know how old she is.. packing this kind of equipment.." I stopped you from telling him.. afraid he'd judge me for wanting you.. You'd play for a while then reach into my top and fondle my breasts.. the screen of your macbook is so much brighter than a regular laptop.. it was the only light in that dark room.. but I didn't care..I'm scared of the dark.. I sleep with the light on in college.. I have sleeping masks to trick my body into thinking it's surrounded by darkness. I can't wait for you in a room if the lights go out.. My mom has to call me if she's out and they take the light because I'm terrified..I once ran out of the house naked because I thought I heard a noise in the dark..  but you were there, and you did delicious things to me that took my breath away..


I should stop... I'm not trying to arouse you, and I'm not trying to scare you off.. oh crap, I really should shut up now.

Mustapha.. basically, I just miss you a lot. I don't know why.. I mean I do know why but I can't explain why I stop breathing every time I hear your name, even if it's not about you.

I know this has pitifully graduated into a poorly disguised love letter from an infatuated teenager, but whatever it is..it's sincere.

..Now May looks like Christmas all over again..

okay seriously, I'm shutting up now.. and if you reply... like when you called and left that message, it will make my day. Or if you call, it will be ever so much more so.


-Lotanna

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: musti audu <audumm@gmail.com>
Date: Sun, Jan 20, 2008 at 10:14 PM
Subject: hello darlin
To: lotannaio@gmail.com


whats up..
waz off my comp when u sent the msg...
what u been up 2... howz uni and all... hope itz goin well...
what did u say we need 2 talk bout... hope u not 2 nasty in college..
well itz college so u mite az well..... hope u doin some work though.. 
i know u'z a smart gal.... so not 2 worried...
anywayzz...  hope all else iz good..
l8r

From: Lotanna Igwe-Odunze <lotannaio@gmail.com>
Date: Fri, Dec 28, 2007 at 9:44 AM
Subject:
To: Mustapha <audumm@gmail.com>


Hey, it was great talking to you the other day. I'm in Maryland until January 12 - the number's 301-879-0501- after which I'll head back to Florida. You can call my room: 352-588-8726, or if you prefer, my mobile, which is 857-544-7540. You may leave a message on either of the last two numbers; I'll reply. I don't know why I decided to call you. It's been four months since I last heard you speak. I guess I knew to hear you would make me happy, so I did. It would have been nice to see you, but I suppose it'll have to be some other time.I'm well, and enjoying school. You should be swamped with work, but consider it a good thing. Say hi to Bashir for me, and to Abdul.

Call me Mona.

Cheers!

Lotanna 

Nov 26 (1 day ago)

From: Lotanna Igwe-Odunze <lotannaio@gmail.com>
Date: Wed, Dec 19, 2007 at 1:38 AM
Subject: ..................
To: audumm@gmail.com


Hey, it's been a while. School's out, and I'm in Maryland so I just thought of you. I'm well, and I hope you're the same.

Cheers

Credit: http://www.fullyreported.com/2015/11/email-exchange-between-sugabelly-and.html

Audu’s Inconclusive Death, Mugabe’s Wheelchair By Reuben Abati

“You look sleepy”

“My brother, let’s just say I slept at a fuel station, looking for fuel.”

“For which of the women in your life, because I hear these days, to please a woman in Nigeria, you must be ready to supply the three major things lacking in the land: money, fuel, and happiness.”

“Leave that matter, please. My condolences on the death of your man, Governor Abubakar Audu”

“We thank God for his life. He played his part.”

“To be so close to breasting the tape and then fall.”

“I know. I know. May be if he had not insisted on running again for the office of Governor in Kogi state, he would still be alive today.”

“The man drove himself too hard, publicly and privately. He ran for every Gubernatorial election in Kogi state since 1991. There must be something special in being Governor for him.”

“Don’t speak ill of the dead, I beg you. Simple etiquette.”

“But you know now?”

“I don’t know nothing”

“Then the man went and married a young, 23-year old. If the election had been concluded and the man had won, the First Lady of Kogi state would have been a 23-year old lady! Those who seek public office should always weigh their lifestyle and their health against their ambition, but politicians act as if they are superhuman.”

“Can you stop?”

“A 74-year old man, with a 23-year old wife. That alone is enough to give anybody hypertension.”

“He was 68”

“Official age. He was 74, somebody told me.”

“Excuse me! Respect the dead, please. Abubakar Audu was a democrat extraordinary, a courageous politician, a visionary, selfless, man of the people, and his party’s popular choice.”

“My view is that it is not the election in Kogi that is inconclusive per se, a supplementary election will be organized, a winner will emerge; it is Audu’s death that is inconclusive considering the many issues it has thrown up.”

“What kind of talk is that? Death is final. It is the cessation of all things, a necessary end.”

“Nothing has ended with Abubakar Audu’s death oh. Did you not see the desperate efforts made to get some Prophets to resurrect him? And some people actually believed that he could be the Lazarus of our time! They started jubilating.”

“That is concrete proof of his popularity. But I was shocked seeing Nigerians will believe anything, and being so superstitious. Even the grave diggers stopped digging, waiting for the prophets to perform a miracle.”

“I hear there was a meeting of the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) on the Kogi election but the moment the prophets waded in, even INEC suspended its meeting and did not reconvene until the prophets failed.”

“Only in Africa!”“When the Prophets didn’t deliver, people got angry. They could have lynched those Prophets”

“Well, at least, some people will now know that the prophets are not always right in the age of biology and science. Who could have been behind such a hare-brained scheme?”

“The man’s in-laws, for example.“

Oh, come on”

“Or persons who may have been promised appointments and contracts. Or it could be persons who invested in his candidacy. Elections in Nigeria are business investments. The investors must have thought of a last minute strategy to reverse the situation. Simple economics. “

“You and your theories. The same people will do business with whoever eventually wins the election, anyway.”

“There is also the inconclusive matter of the 23-year old wife. When the death was announced, many commentators on social media were more concerned about the young widow. Comments about how she will cope, what she would do next. One guy asked for her phone numbers.”

“silly, callous fellow.”

“Another fellow actually said he was ready to inherit all of Audu’s assets and liabilities in that regard.”

“Let him go ahead. Ole!”

“Besides, Audu’s death has turned everybody into a Constitutional expert. What happens if a candidate dies in the course of an inconclusive election? Who becomes the new candidate?”

“Simple. The APC will field another candidate, appeal to whoever is aggrieved within the party to step down until an appropriate candidate who definitely must be Igala, is identified. I don’t see the APC fielding any candidate who will automatically make them lose the election.”

“You think the APC candidate must still be Igala? But nothing is ever that straightforward in Nigerian politics.”

“Of course, otherwise, it will be a walk-over for Governor Idris Wada. The Igalas have the numbers. Politics is a game of numbers. The stakes are high. I foresee many court cases”

“Let them field Audu’s young widow then”

“Are you out of your mind? Why are you so obsessed with this lady?”

“Or may be his son. Does he have any son who is qualified? Let them make it a family affair. If he had supported his son as a candidate…But people just don’t know when to quit and hand over to the next generation.”

“With a 23-year old wife, he was definitely committed to the next generation.”

“Some people are of the view that his running mate should just run with the mandate, but I don’t think the circumstances favour him. He is from a minority group in Kogi state. He is a Christian, and the party may not back him.”

“Poor James Faleke”

“Yeah, he must be troubled. What if he and Audu had won. And they had been sworn in. But now, there are no guarantees.”

“God’s will is supreme. That is one lesson we all must learn from all this. Remember Abacha? When it was time, God intervened. We are all pencils in God’s hands. You can amass all the wealth in the world, marry all the young women, misapply the people’s money, get so close to Cannan, but you can then fall sick and die. In life, things happen and all you have left is six feet, rich or poor, six feet.”

“Six feet”

“I hope Robert Mugabe knows this. I hope Grace Mugabe knows.”

“Why Robert Mugabe?”

“Didn’t you read that story about 50-year old Grace Mugabe, First Lady of Zimbabwe, buying her Robert, a special wheelchair?”

“The way you pronounced Robert, you make it sound like Robot”

“Isn’t that what the 91-year old President of Zimbabwe has become, a Robot. Grace Mugabe’s Robot”

“Sad. In his days, Robert Mugabe, multiple degrees holder, was a shining star. And now, his wife is pushing him around”

“She actually has a PhD, awarded in two months, without examination or dissertation, by her Robert in his capacity as Chancellor of the University of Zimbabwe!”

“Mugabe! A Pan-Africanist, who stood up to the British and neo-colonial imperialism; today, he is falling down at public functions, he reads the wrong speech in parliament, he is old and tired, and yet he won’t quit.”

“He should. Zimbabwe already has the oldest President in the world, and he has been in power since 1980- 35 years!”

“With a wife like “Dis Grace” Mugabe, he won’t. She says she is ready to push the wheelchair herself, just in case anybody is in any doubt.”

“I won’t put anything past that woman. Didn’t she once proclaim that any woman who wears mini-skirt and gets raped should not complain? Is that not the same woman who punched a journalist in the face during a foreign visit?”

“Mugabe has stayed too long and has allowed a woman to destroy his legacy. He is so smitten with “Dis-Grace”, he allegedly fired his Chief of Defence Staff last year for staring at her derriere!”

“That’s madness.”

“But the woman get am oh. The thing dey; very seriously. And you know in that part of Africa, the women don’t need to buy it and enhance it like Kim Kardashian, the thing just dey and you can lose your head.”

“I think someday in Africa, we’d have to start voting for these First Ladies too. Voters should be given the right to choose the President’s wife, or at least they should be screened by parliament. In Africa, the wives wield so much influence.”

“They do in other places too. It is the man that matters.”

“When Mugabe sits in that wheelchair, Zimbabwe is finished!”

“For democracy to work, we need to worry about the leadership recruitment process in Africa. How do we free democracy from a debilitating sense and culture of entitlement. How do we get persons who are still up to it, and who will not aspire to rule till they are on wheelchair or life-long medication.”“

”All men who play God and who aspire to be God, let them be reminded, it is just six feet. In Cameroon, Paul Biya has been sitting tight for 33 years, in Congo, Nguesso has been in power for 36 years, in Equitorial Guinea, Mbasogo is almost a god in human form. And you have dos Santos in Angola (36 years) Bashir in Sudan (22 years) Museveni in Uganda (29 years), Idris Deby in Chad (25 years) and Jammeh in Gambia (21 years).”

“Six feet. Just six feet in the grave.”

“I hope they all know.”

“It is also a lesson for the poor, including those young ones who play God with their talents.”

“Absolutely. There are people these days who play God with their laptops, their pens and I-pads. Imagine some people jubilating over other people’s misfortune.”

“Six feet, my brother, not an inch more nor less. In the grave, all men are equal.”

SURVIVING MUSTAPHA AUDU, AND HIS RAPE BRIGADE - SUGA BELLY

Every time I see a white Nissan Altima, my palms go sweaty, and my knees get weak. It’s an involuntary reaction born of so many nights being driven around Asokoro pinned to the floor of Tunji’s white Nissan Altima, barely able to breathe, the stench of weed stinging my eyes while I choked on the penis of whomever it pleased Mustapha to force me to pleasure that day.

I can’t have music playing while driving around in a car either. Or just sitting around at home. I can’t have music playing period. Especially not Maroon5. If I get into your car, please drive in fucking silence or you will make it hard for me to breathe.

Right now there are thousands of people running wild with their “opinions”, talking authoritatively about what Mustapha, Abdul, Tunji, and their band of friends and brothers did to me, as if they were there. As if they hovered around us unseen like evil spirits, listening to everything that was said, seeing everything that happened, as if they know.

LMAO @ gold digger and prostitute. I never asked Mustapha for anything, and I’ve always done honest work for my own money, which is very telling, since I met Mustapha at WORK.

In the beginning, Mustapha and I would go out for lunch, and I’d put gas in his car, and we’d buy our own shawarmas, and eat out of each others. I had a massive crush on him, and he told me he loved me, and called me “his woman” which made me feel special. I was getting paid 20K a month, which is nothing now, but it was my first real salary back then, and it was nice to have more money of my own to spend, and spend on him I did.

I actually wish this was true. At least it would be compensation for all the money I’ve had to spend on psychotherapy over the last few years.

I’m no stranger to money. I’ve had a lot of it, and I’ve had very little, and I’ve never been the type of person to be impressed by anyone’s wealth, so it wasn’t cars, hotels, or fancy shit I cared about, I was cool. I attended the best boarding school in the country, and Mustapha didn’t impress me, and I never asked him for anything or took anything from him besides the comic books and novels we traded with each other.

Earlier, happier days at Alteq

What I needed was a friend, and when I plunked down at my desk that first day of work at Alteq, and bonded immediately over a shared love of books and superhero comics, I thought I’d made one in the guy sitting next to me.

Every day, I came to work, and he was right there. And at the end of each work day, it had become normal to everyone for him to drop me off at home, so when 6pm came, and he grabbed hold of my arm and said “Let’s go.” I had no idea how to justify refusing and making a scene.

Even after he was fired in April of 2007, at the end of each work day, he would show up outside our office on Amazon street to whisk me away. I would step outside the gate, and he would be there in his red Mercedes, waiting, demanding I get in.

I was terrified that my refusal would mean the exposure of the pictures he had taken of me early in our relationship, photos I told him not to take, but he did anyway, photos in which I was naked and vulnerable.

Me (Left) at work, pretending I hadn’t a care in the world

I wanted to quit my job, but what reason could I possibly give my family for quitting a job I obviously loved, especially when I needed the internship to get into the honours program at the university I was to attend that year?

I had so much to be fearful of. The thought of the videos Abdul recorded of Mustapha and Tunji raping me seeing the light of day filled me with sheer terror. The alternative was keeping it all secret, and so I did.

Masking your emotions is not hard to do, just exhausting, and so for eleven hours a day, from 7am to 6pm, putting on my clothes, going to work, and sitting at my desk next to Mustapha every day was easier than you think.

Because the Nigerian Police is so trustworthy…

You’d have to be stupid not to notice what kind of country Nigeria is, and I have never been stupid.

At 17, I knew already that the Nigerian police is most definitely NOT your friend, and that people who have police and army escorts in their homes are generally the sort that can make you disappear (in many little pieces preferably), and pay off  the police to look the other way, or failing all else, buy judges to make sure any court cases brought against them never see the light of day.

I had disclosed already to my priest at confession, and to a doctor in Maitama General Hospitalwhere I got tested for HIV and other STDS, the horrific things that were happening to me, and nothing had come of it. At the time, I didn’t know whether a rape crisis centre like the Mirabel Rape Centre even existed in Nigeria, or that there were any resources to help someone in my situation, or even what to do after I had been raped to help me get justice.

I was scared, and I felt very alone. Their parents were very powerful people, and I didn’t have any faith in the police, especially faced with attackers that seemed to have both the police and the army in their pockets.

Abdul and Mustapha at Javabean

It was even more difficult to come to terms with the enormous betrayal of the man who told me he loved me, whom I loved as well, doing unspeakable things to me, and forcing me to do them with others. Even after I escaped from him by moving to the United States for college, I remained torn, and the part of me that loved him could not reconcile with the horror that he had put me through, and we stayed in contact because the mental hold he had over me was still so strong. It took me an additional three years to fully break free of him, and though I don’t live in daily terror of Mustapha Audu as I once did, anything that bears even so much as the memory of him is enough to break me down.

Mustapha Audu and Abdul Ogohi in 2007

In December of 2008, I ran into Bashir in a mall in Maryland, and suffered a complete panic attack. I broke away from the people I had come shopping with, and ran and ran to the other end of the mall.

In 2012 and 2013, while out with Nyimbi, I ran into Ema and Tunji at Vanilla in Maitama. Tunji was sitting in low seats opposite the bar in the company of my classmate, Kachi whom I’d attended Loyola with.

They didn’t recognize me, but it was all I could do not to break a bottle of whiskey on Ema’s revoltingly globular head, and the night ended with Nyimbi dragging me out of Vanilla in tears of anger and frustration at my lost opportunity to kill them both.

Looking back, I can see how so much fear and shame prevented me from exposing what these animals were doing to me, and I question why I let them rob me of so many years of my life.

Still, the child I was at 17 was very different from the adult I am today at 26, and my 26 year old self would have damned the consequences, told, and raised hell.

As terrifying as it was to come to work every day and have to sit next to Mustapha, I’m saddened by the realisation that in the same place that held such terror and anxiety for me, I had people who loved me, cared about me, and would have done their best to protect me if I could have overcome my fear and shame and cried out for help.

Nyimbi (L) and Me (R) at my send off party at Alteq in August 2007

My adult self sees what my child self could not back then – that had I told my mentor, boss, and friend, Nyimbi  what was happening to me right under his nose, he would have stopped at nothing to rescue me from my private hell.

What baffles me, is how so many people who know absolutely nothing about what did happen, can speak with such confidence, the most absurd speculations, about the facts of my life. If this all were not so incredibly sad, it would be quite amusing to me, that there are thousands of people who think I am (by my count so far) – an agent of PDP, a gold digger, a woman scorned, or politically motivated because they personally have never heard of my rape before now.

Never mind, that I have been talking about this FOR EIGHT FUCKING YEARS.

Never mind that FOUR YEARS AGO I referred to this same ordeal in this article I wrote for The African Report in 2011 – http://www.theafricareport.com/Soapbox/online-communities-give-us-power.html  

Or that ALMOST EVERY SINGLE POST on this blog in 2007 was about what was happening to me, and my anguish, confusion, fear, hopelessness, and powerlessness to put a stop to it.  

Or that the SOLE REASON this entire blog even exists is because I started it to document my year at my first real job; a job that would bring me into sustained contact with the man who, accompanied by his friends and siblings, abused, raped, and tormented me on an almost daily basis for the better part of six months.

It’s a travesty that it wasn’t until a private conversation between myself and my close friend was posted on Twitter, that people began to take what I had been saying forever seriously.

My disclosure to my close friend – Part 1

My disclosure to my close friend – Part 2

My disclosure to my close friend – Part 3

Mustapha was a monster like you cannot even begin to imagine.
His brother Bashir, was the same age as me, and Mustapha decided, that one way or the other, it was his duty as big brother to rid Bashir of his virginity. At what was supposed to be a casual get together for suya and drinks at Tunji’s house, he dragged Bashir and me into the bedroom, and pushed us inside, saying to Bashir “Fuck her!” before locking the door, and leaving me alone in the darkness with his brother.

All my pleas to Mustapha were in vain, and the only thing we heard from Mustapha from the other side of the door was “Don’t let me come back and find out you’re still a virgin.”

On a different date, his cousin, Jibril raped me in that same room. I screamed, and screamed, and fought, and struggled, eventually sticking my fingers into his nose, and biting his hands. In retaliation, he bit me hard on the nose, and later that night, I explained away the swelling on my nose I came home with as an unfortunate meeting with the edge of a swimming pool.

All the while I was screaming, Tunji and Mohammed were discussing business, and when my screams interrupted their conversation, Tunji came by to look at me, naked and pinned beneath Jibril, only to laugh and shut the door firmly behind him.

Tunji Abdul

Source – https://www.instagram.com/p/wY950PDp11/

So, when I see ignorant comments from members of the public in reaction to my trauma, I really feel the urge to ask these shameless people, how the fuck do you know?  

Were you there?  

Because I was there, and you most certainly were not.  

I SURVIVED it, not you, so it is I who will tell you what happened to me, not the other way around.

The aftermath of my rape at the hands of Mustapha and his cohorts is that for the past eight years, I have barely existed.  

I’ve been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, and Severe Clinical Depression, among a host of other problems as a result of the trauma I suffered, by multiple psychiatrists and mental health professionals.

Some of the medications I have to take

Every day is a struggle to not end my life, and I have had to spend a small fortune on therapy and mental health services, as well as anti-depressant medication to make my life livable. Even then, I have to constantly fight through waves of pain, anger, shame, self-loathing, and the urge to make it all just go away to get through each day, and I don’t always succeed.  

In 2011, I tried to jump off a bridge, and was hospitalized against my will on a 72 hour hold to save my life. Before that, I had attempted to kill myself by taking an overdose, and woke up in a pool of my own vomit.

I spent majority of my freshman year researching suicide methods, and for most of my first semester of college, besides attend class, I did nothing but cry until I passed out, then wake up ravenous because I’d been unconscious for several hours. The result was I gained over 100lbs in under three months, far more than the 15lbs you’re expected to gain when you first come to college known as the Freshman Fifteen.  

Five months into near daily rapes, and you could see the death in my eyes.

For the longest time now, I have been dead inside. Dead people can laugh and talk, and come to work on time every day too. Dead people can get shit done, and write their college essays, and go to class, and be just like you if they want to too. The problem with dead people, is that sooner or later though, everyone starts to notice they’re dead.  

And so, my life slowly fell apart.  

I can’t go swimming at night anymore. I can’t go swimming anymore, period. If you think having a panic attack on land is bad, wait until you’ve had one underwater, and almost fucking drowned yourself even though your Mom taught you to swim when you were little.  

I almost drowned in a pool at the Marriott barely 8 feet deep because being in there reminded me of the night my bikini top got pulled off and I got passed around by Abdul in 6 feet of water, and a man spit in my face and beat me, and soldiers had to drag him off me to stop him drowning me by my hair because he was angry Mustapha decided at the last minute that I had been good, and so he wouldn’t get to rape me after all.  

Abdul Ogohi

Nights are impossibly hard for me. How other people just get tired and fall into bed asleep is beyond me. I’m plagued by multiple nightmares every time I close my eyes. I can still feel Ema Oloyo raping me on Abdul’s bed, his oversized head bobbing, his hot, stinking breath buffeting my face as he struggled to force my legs apart. It’s hard to share a bed with people because sometimes I wake up screaming.  

Ema Oloyo – https://ng.linkedin.com/in/ema-oloyo-248b80105

Then there’s the medicine before bed. I have to take that for the rest of my life too. My relationships with friends and family are in tatters because I can barely hide the constant undercurrent of sadness that envelopes me, and the fact that I am always angry.  

Sometimes I simply cannot cope, and I blackout and my autopilot takes over – a basic, high functioning version of me that appears normal for all intents and purposes while I’m really dying inside.  

I’m so tired of keeping this secret, because I shouldn’t have to. 26 is too young to be a member of the living dead, how much more 17?  

As for the people whose membership claim on humanity is so tenuous that they can even conceive that I would concoct any of this just “to get famous” or “for attention”, let me make it clear to you: You are sick.

I am actually, a pretty amazing artist, and if at all, I want to be famous for the skills that I have worked so hard and so long to develop, and the discipline I employ to perfect my craft and be the best at what I do.

THIS is the only thing I want to be famous for

THIS is the skill I have sweated and bled to be recognized for not the sordid details of my sexual assault, which will now hang over me like a dark cloud for the rest of my life.

Why on Earth would anyone who has been raped in Nigeria want to call attention to that fact when rape victims are pilloried as whores, gold diggers, prostitutes, and sluts? When all you can look forward to is constantly being the topic of hushed conversation, pitiful looks, social ostracism and being called “Rape Girl”?

That since the news of my horrific rape and abuse broke, that I have received hundreds of messages like this one is an indictment on Nigeria’s educational system, and I find it utterly shameful that grown adults can hear of a child being abused, raped, and pimped out to the friends of a man she trusted and loved, and their first impulse is to vilify her as a slut and not the men who damaged her and destroyed her life.

In Nigeria’s entire legal history, there have been only EIGHTEEN rape convictions, so the chances of a woman raped even under the best of circumstances ( where the perpetrator is a stranger, the victim a virgin, and DNA and video evidence are on file) getting justice of any sort is infinitesimally low, how much less in my case where I had a concurrent romantic relationship with my one of my rapists?

The other day, I got a LinkedIn invitation to connect from Mustapha, and it sent me spiraling into a full blown panic attack that ended with me clutching my toilet, vomiting in the bathroom.

Thanks to them, I will never, ever in my life, touch a game of Risk.
It was always there. That battered box of cards and soldiers, they liked to play after they were done. No matter where we went, it was always there, silent witness that it was. It saw everything. If board games could talk, that box of Risk would tell you all the times I screamed and cried, and begged and bargained, and promised to be good, promised to obey, and how it never ever mattered.

Following my post on Twitter in September last year, listing the names of the men who participated in my assault, I received an email from a young woman telling me that she too had had a similar experience with Mustapha, Abdul, and Ema, and that Mustapha had made a sextape of her without her consent, and she was now being threatened with the release of that video.

I too, for years have lived in fear of the videos Mustapha, Abdul, and Tunji made of themselves raping me becoming exposed to the public, and the lady who emailed me is just one of many young women who have survived abuse, sexual assault, blackmail, and rape at the hands of these men.

After my story leaked, my friend received death threats from the Audus, as well as a threatening letter from their lawyers demanding $2 million USD within 2 hours. Such an outrageous threat, but probably not absurd to people who have stolen $11 billion USD already.

So yeah.

Fuck your forgiveness. Fuck “Just forget”.

I died, went to hell, and resurrected my fucking self, so now I’m going to live.

If the street you live on is Kwame Nkrumah, or Solomon Barau, sorry I can’t visit you.

And if you drive a wine Mercedes, a white Nissan Altima, or a silver Peugeot 206, I can’t ever get in your car.

Especially if the license plate is AX247KUJ.